History

History gathers heavy 

like cinnamon 

at the bottom of a teacup.

History is a disclaimer. 

It's misshapen, lumpy. 

It's seeing a face in the grill of a car. 

It’s that time your kid was really into dinosaurs. 

It’s the encampment that once was. 

It’s a Bushism. 

It’s a Rembrandt. 

It’s a culture that escaped the Latin alphabet.

It's the scars on my stomach. 

It's the names of the stars. 

It’s literally twerking right now. 

I hate it. 

I want to spit it out.

I hate it. 

It’s a train. 

It’s a gun.

It’s boring. 

It’s a scar. 

It’s a chain.

It’s a chain–

But the chain reaches into a deep well

Pulling 

Pulling 

Pulling

History gathers thick

like cinnamon 

at the back of my throat.

It flavors my tea. 

I sip.